


DIY Peluquería

by gloss



Category: Love and Rockets (Comic)
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, F/F, Shaving Kink, chromatic characters, locas, punk rock girls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-29
Updated: 2009-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 04:23:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/327683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hopey looks like a fuzzyheaded hippie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	DIY Peluquería

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another for [](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**kink_bingo**](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/). Thanks to G. for the beta and Spanish help.
> 
>  **setting/spoilers:** [c.1980](http://www.zompist.com/loveroc1.html), while they're still living with Izzy. No real spoilers.

"Maggot, what the fuck?" Hopey threw her shoulder against the bathroom door. It wasn't locked, so she careened inside, arms windmilling, and crashed into Maggie. She took the opportunity to cop a feel before shoving Maggie in the chest. "Where the fuck've you been?"

"Split my jeans." Maggie sat down heavily on the toilet and let out a long, whistling sigh. She kicked at the pile her jeans made on the gleaming pink tile.

The entire room was pink, grapefruit-pink, shiny as a new rocket. Neither of them knew where they were: after the concert got shut down by Sergeant Sado and his fascist goon buddies, Daffy took them to a party on the north side, where they ran into some friend of Hopey's brother's, and *he* took them into the Valley, into some gated community where no one spoke Spanish after dinner time when all the household help got on the bus back to the barrio. Whoever lived here definitely wasn't home.

"Pink! Fuck, this place is like being in a cooch --" Hopey hopped up on to the edge of the tub and peered into the mirror on the wall. She licked her palms and tried to spike up her hair. "Pink like fucking *death*."

Maggie unfolded her arms and slapped Hopey's leg. "Hair looks like a hippie's, you know."

"Shut up, fat ass."

Maggie shrugged and flipped her off. "Just saying."

Hopey jumped off the tub and landed in a crouch, her overcoat puffing out dramatically before settling down in a swish. Sometimes she pretended she was Batman or some shit. Not that you could say anything.

Before Maggie could say anything, Hopey had the door open to the medicine cabinet and she was riffling through. She stuffed prescription bottles into her pockets, sprayed several different perfumes into the air, dumped out a box of Q-tips just because, and shook a puff full of white powder at Maggie.

"¡Puta!" Maggie tried to grab the puff, but she sneezed, Hopey cackled, and all she could do was get her arms around Hopey's scrawny waist and try to take her down. They wrestled for the puff, then forgot the puff and knocked into the cabinets, pulled down a towel rack, and finally, breathless, ended where they'd begun, sprawled out on pink linoleum with Q-tips scattered around them like rose petals at a yuppie wedding.

Maggie's stomach hurt from laughing and it was hard to catch her breath, what with Hopey biting and licking at her throat. She made weird little noises like a baby cat; even her fingers did a kind of kneading motion on Maggie's breast. Her shirt bunched up farther and farther until she might as well have been naked, so she pushed Hopey away and tugged the shirt over her head.

She'd already split her pants. Might as well lose the shirt. Make it a matched set.

Hopey stuck two fingers into her mouth and whistled. Maggie knocked her upside the head with her elbow, but Hopey kept whistling.

Nothing to do but kiss her. It was the only time they ever got quiet -- even sleep was fitful and spiked with snatches of conversation both surreal and inane -- and even that was relative. Hopey squeaked, then groaned, into Maggie's mouth as she scooted around, up on one knee, trying to get comfortable. She whacked the toilet with one arm and kicked the cabinet door and swore into the kiss; the sound tickled Maggie's palate, made her laugh, and then she just couldn't stop.

She scrubbed her knuckles over Hopey's hair and laughed harder. "Klutzy hippie."

Hopey scowled, baring her teeth, as she sat back on her heels. Maggie's skin hurt a little. It was cold in the central air, untouched and prickly.

Hopey tossed a black appliance at Maggie. "So fix it."

"What is this?"

"What do I look like, Henrietta the Happy Homemaker? It's a clipper. Beard trimmer. Thingama-fucking-jig, only from Norelco. Or Remington." Hopey cocked her head. "Maybe they use it to trim her bush. That'd be --"

Maggie kicked her.

Maggie got up on the edge of the tub and pulled Hopey between her legs -- "Just where I want to be," she said, which earned her another cuff on the ear -- and thumbed on the clipper.

"Never done this before," she said over the noise.

Hopey mumbled something, but Maggie stuck her tongue out and got to clipping. After the first couple false starts, she got used to the bumps and valleys on Hopey's head and worked up a pretty good rhythm. Up from the nape, over the bulge at the back, and onto the crown. There was nothing, barely anything, between brain and the outside world; Hopey's bones seemed about as thick as porcelain, even more fragile.

Maggie breathed her mouth and tried to resist the urge to kiss the crown of Hopey's head. That spot where babies' heads are still open: the skin there was so pale, so soft, and Hopey was just *letting* her touch and shave.

Hopey's fine black hair fell like dust motes over her ears and down her neck. Maggie blew them away and Hopey shivered. She was unaccountably quiet, just sitting with shoulders hunched. Maggie craned around one side and saw Hopey's head bowed, her eyes closed, lips full and bright in her pale face.

Hard to believe this was the angry little brat who'd lived in Del Chimney's closet and driven Sergeant Sado round the bend. She looked -- almost, always almost -- angelic.

"You asleep?" Maggie asked.

Hopey opened one eye and her lip lifted in a snarl. When she spoke, though, it was quietly. "What do you think, baggy Maggie?"

"I think a lot of things." Maggie straightened up and tipped Hopey's head to the right, then ran the clipper around the curve just over her ear. When she blew the hair from Hopey's temple, Hopey shivered again, so Maggie pinched her chin and kissed her cheek.

Hopey wouldn't sit still for anyone else.

"How's that?" Maggie asked, flicking off the clipper and pushing Hopey away.

Hopey twisted around as she ran both palms back and forth over her skull. She looked much more like herself, bare-headed, her eyes as big as a kid on a milk carton's.

"Do you like it?" Maggie added and wished, as soon as she'd said it, that she hadn't. Stupid needy Perla, just hold your *tongue*. She kicked Hopey's thigh. "Forget it."

On her knees, Hopey braced one hand on Maggie's knee and tugged her shirt off over her head with the other. It was dusted with hair. Come to think of it, they probably should have taken it off *first*.

"Do you? Like it?" Hopey rubbed her head against Maggie's chest, the rise of her breasts, then the crook of her neck. Her scalp was warm as the rest of her, the bristle of her hair more a ticklish hint than any kind of real texture.

Hopey was small enough that she didn't need to wear a bra; her breasts flattened against Maggie's belly, nipples slightly poking, as she buried her face in Maggie's cleavage. Maggie ran her fingers in curlicues around Hopey's head, testing the length, enjoying the tickle. She grabbed at Hopey when Hopey kissed her breasts, one, then the other, teeth and tongue on the nipples, and then it was on all over again.

"Ow, ow, beard burn!" Maggie convulsed laughing, trying to hold Hopey off, but Hopey wriggled free and wrapped her arm around Maggie's waist. "I'm serious, it's --"

Hopey slid down until she was splayed out on the ugly pink floor. She pulled Maggie with her, nipping and sucking at any bare skin she could reach, until Maggie knelt over Hopey's chest, hands on Hopey's shoulders.

"I'm gonna crush you," Maggie pointed out. She tried to lift herself up, but there was nowhere to go, not with Hopey's fingers digging into the flesh of her ass and thighs. "Hopey, c'mon, I'm like a thousand pounds, I can't --"

Hopey shook her head and spread her fingers until she was kneading the full rise of Maggie's' buttocks. She bunched up the cotton panties and pulled Maggie down, down, until Maggie was leaning forward, one hand braced on the floor, the other on the toiler, and Hopey's head was buried between her thighs. The bristles were far from ticklish now; Maggie was wet as the ocean and Hopey determined as the tides.

Hopey set Maggie rocking, then just held on, shaven head turning to and fro, her tongue flickering out before her mouth opened all the way and she inhaled, burying herself in the moist heat, choking off. Each little brush of her clipped hair set Maggie jiggling in another direction, while her mouth pulled Maggie down into a groaning, yearning spiral.

Maggie lost herself, pounding at the toilet bowl with her fist, breath painful and shredded, her cheek flattened against the toilet lid. Her cheek was numb, her knees ached on the tile floor, she couldn't have cared less about any of that. She didn't care what she looked like, who might hear, who might *see*, because Hopey had her dead to rights, opening further and further, grinding down on the prickly skull and smooth face.

When she couldn't take it any more, when she pulled herself up, her knees wobbled and her eyes were crossed. Hopey came with her and kissed her with sticky-wet lips, and Maggie just held on for dear life, arms wrapped around Hopey's scrawny little frame. They rocked back and forth, kissing until the breath whistled through their noses. Maggie cupped the back of Hopey's skull and worked her thumb up and down the smooth nape of her neck.

"Missed a spot," Hopey said against her mouth. When she pulled back, she was smirking, red-faced, beautiful.

"I did not!"

Hopey had Maggie's wrist in her grasp; she pulled Maggie's hand between her legs. Her pants were open, down around her thighs, and, as usual, she wore no underwear. "Get to work, Margarita Misfit."

Maggie spread her fingers against the slick heat and rough hair. She couldn't speak for grinning so wide.

 

[end]


End file.
